Living


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2. To know me

The nurses,

with their white gloves

and raised eyebrows;

they think they know me.

My mother,

with her sad eyes

and gentle hands;

she thinks she knows me.

My father, with his quiet voice

and furtive glances;

he thinks he knows me.

My sister,

with her strained smile

and secret tears;

she thinks she knows me.

My friends,

what's left of them,

with their questions;

they think they know me.

And myself,

with ink stained hands

and sore, red eyes;

I don't think I know me at all.

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